Sweet is the Music
by generalsleepy
Summary: Troy/Moffitt. In the aftermath of a brutal assault, Troy struggles to hold his second-in-command in tow, while Moffitt learns to rely on a friend's help. They end up growing closer than either of them had expected. (Non-con).
1. Chapter 1

_Sweet is the music of Arabia_

_In my heart, when out of dreams_

_I still in the thin clear mirk of dawn_

_Descry her gliding streams;_

_Hear her strange lutes on the green banks_

_Ring loud with the grief and delight_

_Of the dim-silked, dark-haired Musicians_

_In the brooding silence of night._

- "Arabia," Walter De La Mare

* * *

The midday desert sun blazed down on the small encampment. On the long list of things that Sergeant Sam Troy would've killed for, his hat was relatively low, but definitely there.

The Germans had placed him and the three other members of the Rat Patrol in the center of the camp. All four of them were bound hand and foot with thick, rough rope, tied to stakes driven firmly into the sand. Troy had been working determinedly at the bonds for approximately a half an hour and had only succeeded in slicing up his hands and wrists.

He'd only given up when Sergeant Jack Moffitt cautioned him to stop needlessly injuring himself. "Unless your plan involves escaping by cutting your own hands off," he added dryly. "In which case we have additional problems to discuss."

The comment dragged a dark chuckle out of him. One of the guards watching them from the shade of a nearby tent shouted, Troy assumed telling them to be quiet. He leaned his head back against the wooden stake and shut his eyes against the assault of the sun.

Their mission had been top secret. They were sent into the deep desert to intercept a half-track transporting a German spy newly smuggled out of France. They succeeded in taking out the guards, but had to shoot the spy when he went to destroy a file of documents in the glove box.

Fortunately, the documents themselves more than made up for the loss of their target. From Moffitt's hasty translation of the German labels on the maps, they could tell that the information could potentially be a boon to the North African campaign; supply lines, previously unknown oases, weapons caches. They made a beeline for the nearest Allied base.

However, this German camp wasn't known to them, or marked on the newly captured maps. By the time they caught wind of the ambush, the pincers had closed around them. They only managed to evade capture long enough to bury the maps. Thanks to some quick thinking on Troy's part, they were finally discovered in the process of burning a set of plain topographical maps to ashes. The Germans were completely certain that the spy's maps were destroyed.

The camp they had been taken to was ramshackle, scantily supplied, and looked like it had been thrown up hastily. Troy had to wonder why the base had been set up so quickly in an area without apparent strategic value. He had a feeling the answers could be found in the captured documents. If they ever got the chance to dig them out again and get them to Allied headquarters. If they could get themselves out of this camp.

"Speaking of which, Sarge," Private Mark Hitchcock muttered out of the corner of his mouth. "What sort of plan to we have?"

"For the moment, sit tight and wait for them to make their next move," Troy answered. "Hopefully trip up somewhere."

The guard shouted again, brandishing his gun. He grumbled something to the soldier standing next to him under the scant shade provided by the canvas awning. Troy didn't need Moffitt's linguistic expertise to understand what they were talking about—the language of bitching was universal. Guarding a group of captives in the middle of the desert, miles from civilization was clearly not the most ideal assignment.

As Troy watched, the two soldiers suddenly snapped to attention. He followed the direction of their salutes to the officer's tent, where four men were walking in a loose knot. It took him a moment to place the uniforms, and when he did his jaw clenched and his stomach tightened. The men were SS—officers, judging by the reaction of the guards. All but one of them had their caps tucked under their arms. Their faces held the same look of restless boredom as did the soldiers'. And their eyes were fixed on the four captives.

The man with the cap (the insignias on his uniform were slightly different than those of the others, and Troy assumed he was a superior) lazily waved the two guards to ease, as he made his way towards the captives. Behind him, one of the men nudged another and said something in German. The other three laughed. Out of the corner of his eye, Troy saw Moffitt barely control a scowl.

The leader—a tall, fair-haired, sharp-featured man—stopped in front of them, hands behind his back, and surveyed the prisoners. Troy couldn't help but think that this was how a pig strung up in a butcher's shop window felt. With his eyes fixed on Troy's, the German spoke back to his cronies, provoking a fresh round of guffaws.

Troy strained futilely against the ropes. He recognized the way that the SS men were looking at them; like little boys who had found a nest of baby birds, idle sadism thrilled to find an outlet. He knew that he and the others were in a very bad place as long as they were the birds.

"So," the leader began in thickly accented English, "this is the famous Rat Patrol. It seems as if you've finally found a hole you can't crawl out of."

Troy glared up at him through the fierce sunlight. "You just watch us."

The man smirked and turned to comment sarcastically at his companions Troy found himself getting sick of the sound of the Germans' cackling damn quickly.

The others ranged around the four captives, sneering down at them and occasionally trading jokes over their heads. Troy looked over at Moffitt again. His tightly controlled expression wasn't encouraging.

One of the Germans—young-looking, with black hair and a broken nose—stopped in front of Private Tully Pettigrew. He grinned down at the young soldier and every ounce of Troy's protective feeling towards his men flared up like gasoline touched with a match. He renewed struggling, feeling fresh blood oozing down his palms. At that moment, he was willing to lose a hand, if he was sure that he could beat the leering Kraut to death before he bled out.

"What is your name, soldier?" the German asked in English worse than his superior's.

Tully cast a sidelong glance at Troy. "Tully Pettigrew. Private. U.S. Army."

"Pettigrew…" the German repeated. He elbowed the man next to him and said something that brought a grin to his face as well. All four of them were looking down at Tully now, their smiles dark and predatory. Tully's expression remained impassive, but Troy could see the concern growing on Moffitt and Hitch's faces and they squirmed against their restraints.

The dark-haired German reached down and grabbed Tully's chin in his thumb and forefinger. He tried to tilt Tully's head back, exposing his throat. Without changing his expression, Tully jerked away. The man snarled and yanked Tully back by his hair. He pressed his face in close to the young private's and said something that made his friends snicker as they circled around like vultures.

Troy thrashed uselessly. "Dammit—!" he began, intending to scream and holler as long and loud as he had to in order to get their focus off of Tully and onto him.

He was interrupted by a new voice shouting in German. It took him a second to recognize the voice as Moffitt's.

Moffitt stared defiantly up at the SS men as they turned towards him. His back was straight and his tone was clipped and curt as he continued speaking.

Troy could see that Moffitt had beaten him to the punch. Though he was glad to have the jackals off of Tully, it was still one of his men in danger—danger that Troy knew he should be facing instead.

The leader sneered and shot a question at Moffitt. Without missing a beat, Moffitt responded. The man chuckled as he took a few slow steps towards Moffitt and leaned down. Suddenly, he backhanded Moffitt across the face. While the sergeant was still reeling, the Nazi grabbed a handful of his hair and yanked his head back until it smacked against the post. He said something in a low, threatening voice. When Moffitt's stony expression didn't change, the man spat in his face.

Moffitt winced as spittle rolled down his cheek. The leader shoved him to the side. Another German kicked him in the thigh. The dark-haired man pushed his boot down between Moffitt's legs provoking a strangled cry from the sergeant.

"Rotten sons of bitches!" Hitch snarled. He struggled against the restraints, ignoring the bloody mess he was making of his wrists. Tully remained silent, but Troy had never seen so much pure hate blazing in the young man's eyes.

The leader barked an order. Laughing, one of the Germans yanked up the stake Moffitt's wrists were bound to. The dark-haired man immediately kicked Moffitt over onto his side. A third SS man knelt down and unwound the ropes around Moffitt's ankles. The dark-haired German kicked Moffitt once more, before they hauled him to his feet.

Troy briefly caught Moffitt's gaze, as he struggled to keep upright. Anyone else would have seen nothing but the steely façade the sergeant adopted under pressure, the peerless poker face that had stymied would-be interrogators dozens of times before. Troy however, could read the fear barely restrained behind the hard blue eyes.

Troy wanted nothing more than to strangle each and every one of the Nazis with his bare hands.

The dark-haired man gave Moffitt a shove, causing him to stumble and his weakened legs to nearly give out beneath him. The two other Germans grabbed him by his arms and started dragging him away.

"Hey!" Troy instinctually pulled towards Moffitt, as his friend was forced through the mouth of a tent at the opposite end of the camp. "Where the hell are you taking him!"

The leader paused and looked down at him. He tipped back his cap and gave a grin that made Troy's skin crawl. "Do not worry. We will bring him back to you in one piece."

He turned on his heel and walked towards the tent they had dragged Moffitt into.

"Come back, you bastard!" Hitch shouted. He looked over at Troy, the fear and uncertainty undisguised in his youthful face. "Sarge, whadda we do?"

"I don't know yet." Troy took a deep breath, forcing his mind back on track. "Don't worry about Moffitt, Hitch. He knows what he's doing—he can take care of himself."

"Let's just not wait too long before busting him out," Tully said, his voice a low rumble.

Troy gritted his teeth. He knew Tully was right, but he couldn't let that distract him. He couldn't dwell on what might be happening to Moffitt at that very moment, while he was helpless to do anything; not if he wanted any of them to get out of this alive.

"Yeah," he growled. "Just keep your eyes open. We might only get one shot at this, and we gotta be ready to take it."

"Right, Sarge," Hitch said. Tully nodded solemnly.

Troy leaned back against the post. Half-formed plans buzzed through his head. He had to banish from his mind the image of the SS officer grinning as Moffitt was dragged away. Moffitt was usually the one who kept him from losing his head; now he was on his own, and he had to find some way out. He wasn't going to think about the alternative.


	2. Chapter 2

About an hour later, the SS men emerged from the tent. They ignored the Americans as they made their way back across the open space in the middle of the camp, laughing and talking in German.

"Hey!" Troy demanded. "Where's Sergeant Moffitt?"

A couple of them glanced over their shoulders and snickered, but otherwise they didn't acknowledge him.

Rage flared in Troy's chest. "Listen, you bastards! What the hell did you do to him?!"

The leader turned and said something in German that Troy could translate as a taunt. He snarled, and the Nazi laughed, before following the three others. They ducked into the officers' tent. A few minutes later, they exited, walked over to the parked staff car, and drove off.

"Lousy Krauts…" Hitch growled.

"Sarge," Tully said sharply.

"What?"

He jerked his head to the left. Troy followed his eyes and quickly saw what it was Tully was talking about. A large, dark cloud of sand rolled across the desert like a wave across a beach, still distant but coming closer by the second.

"How long do you think till it reaches us?" he asked.

"'Bout ten, fifteen minutes maybe," Tully answered.

"Tully, Hitch," Troy said with a hard grin. " I think we just found our chance."

Hitch echoed Troy's smile and Tully's eyes gleamed. The prospect of dealing some payback to the Germans who had captured them was definitely welcome.

The guards ducked back inside their tent just before the sandstorm hit. It took a few minutes before they seemed to remember their prisoners. By that time the storm was already on them.

Troy winced against the battering of sand. He forced his eyes to stay focused on the distorted shape of the young soldier, face bundled up in a scarf, helmet pulled down low over his eyes, holding a luger in one hand. He circled around them and knelt down behind Troy. A moment later, Troy felt the bonds around his wrists fall away. The German, gun still trained on Troy's chest, then moved to cut the bonds on his ankles with a serrated knife.

The attack went exactly as Troy had planned it. He kicked the man's legs out from under him, the German letting out a cry of pain as he fell. The moment he hit the ground, Troy brought down his heel on the man's hands. He heard bones crunch and was certain he wouldn't be using his gun or knife. He leapt forward in a flash, wrapped his hands around the soldier's throat and pressed down until he stopped struggling.

There wasn't any time to waste. He picked the knife out of the sand and made quick work of Hitch's bonds. He pressed the knife into the private's hand.

"Even if they didn't hear that, we can bet they'll be coming to investigate soon. We gotta get Moffitt and run like Hell before they do."

"Right Sarge."

Hitch set to cutting Tully loose, while Troy picked up the dead soldier's gun and tried to keep watch. They were in the thick of the storm now; all that Troy could see through the sandy haze were vague shapes and blobs. Putting on his goggles made it easier to keep his eyes open, but didn't help much with visibility.

"Got it," Hitch announced, as he and Tully jumped to their feet.

"Think you can find the tent they took Moffitt into through this?"

"Yeah, Sarge."

"Good. I'll try to cover us. Grab onto my shirt so we don't get separated." A moment later, he felt a hand fist in the fabric of his sleeve. As quickly as they could, clinging to each other like little kids crossing a busy street, they made their way across the camp.

Troy was convinced that they had become lost in the sandstorm, when Hitch finally tugged him into a tent. It looked like a conference room, with a long table in the middle surrounded by scattered chairs. Within a fraction of a second though, his attention snapped to the crumpled figure in the sand.

"Moffitt!" he exclaimed, rushing to the sergeant's side

"Troy." Bound hand and foot, Moffitt struggled to sit up. "What's going on?"

"Sandstorm. Gives us cover to bust out." There was a cut above Moffitt's right eye, with the blood smeared towards his ear. Blood trickled down his chin from a split lip. His uniform shirt was ripped open and scratches scored his neck and shoulders.

Troy noticed, with a feeling like a punch in the gut, that his belt and khakis were undone.

Refusing to let himself think of anything that wasn't escape, he set to untying the ropes around Moffitt's ankles, while Hitch sawed at the ones around his wrists. As soon as his hands were free, Moffitt quickly did up his belt and zipper. He didn't meet Troy's eyes as he did.

"Can you walk?" Troy asked, once the last of the ropes were off.

Moffitt nodded. "I think so."

With Troy gripping his forearms and Hitch's hands hooked under his armpits, they hauled him up to his feet. He wobbled a moment, but with Troy holding his arms, he stood.

Tully bent down and picked a dark shape up out of the sand. As he mutely held it out, Troy realized that it was Moffitt's hat and goggles. Moffitt took them, put on the beret, and pulled the goggles over his eyes. A small, wan smile flickered into life across his face.

At that moment, they heard a distant shout in German above the screaming of the storm. It was quickly joined by others.

"Sounds like that's our cue," Troy said. "We need to get to the jeeps, fast."

"They're parked with the other vehicles," Moffitt supplied, as Tully and Hitch put on their own goggles. "About thirty meters right from the mouth of the tent."

"Right. Let's go."

Tully looped Moffitt's arm over his shoulder and helped him limp to the tent flaps. As Troy watched him nervously, he noticed the spots of blood on the back of his pants. He gritted his teeth.

_Damn it. Damn it_.

Troy warily ducked out of the tent first. When he didn't immediately come under a hale of fire, he motioned for the others to run for it. Troy followed behind; they were only a few feet ahead of him, but he still had trouble making them out as more than vague shapes.

"Sarge!" Hitch shouted.

Troy followed his voice and banged his hip against the jeep. He clambered into the back, put down the luger, and grabbed hold of the minigun. He could barely make out Hitch at the wheel in front of him. "Tully, Moffitt, you ready?!"

The two shouted affirmatives. A moment later, he heard a fresh round of German shouts and bullets pinged off of nearby vehicles.

"Shake it!" Troy ordered. The two engines revved, and Troy hung on as they raced away , German shots following them. Troy spun the gun around and fired at the shapes of their pursuers. He could hear Moffitt doing the same in the other jeep.

They continued to lay down protective fire as Tully and Hitch did some of the best driving of their lives away from the camp into the thick of the sandstorm, where the Germans didn't have a chance of following them.

Their first priority was to get away, to make sure there were no Jerries on their tail when they went to retrieve the maps. Once they were free and clear, Troy could breath again, get a look at the damage, and see where to go next.


	3. Chapter 3

When they emerged on the other side of the wave of sand, it was clear that not a single soul had followed them, or had any chance of finding them. By that time, the sun was shrinking rapidly towards the horizon. As soon as he thought it was safe, Troy signaled them to stop.

They all took grateful swigs of water. Troy noticed that Moffitt was still limping, though not as badly as before. Then, they spread a map over the hood of one of the jeeps and started working to determine their position.

When they seemed to be on the right track, Tully drew Moffitt aside with a few monosyllables and cleaned out the wound on his forehead, before applying a bandage from the first aid kit. Troy didn't miss the way Moffitt instinctively jerked away from Tully's grasp around his arm, and seemed to be forcing himself to stay still. He ground his teeth and concentrated on the map again.

"All right," he said. "Unless we managed to steer way off course during the storm, we should be in this area here." He outlined a tiny circle on the map.

"We can test that easily enough," Moffitt responded. He nodded and smiled his thanks at Tully, and then walked over to the map. "We head east and we should hit this oasis within about six hours. From there, we can drive back to the maps."

"Here." Troy jabbed his finger at the point that he had seared into his memory the moment they finished burying the documents. He leaned heavily against the fender and looked up at the sun. "Well, it'll be night soon. I don't think we'll gain anything by starting out right now. Plus, I don't know about you, but I'm about ready to start eating rocks."

"You're in luck," Hitch said, smirking. "Rations are the next best thing. Definitely taste the same."

They ate their MREs in silence, pausing only to shake the sand out of their boots and hair. Troy knew that Moffitt must have noticed the way he kept looking over at him with wary concern. He kept his expression studiously blank.

When they had scraped up the last crumbs of rations, Tully cleared away the remains of the meal, while they pulled out their bedrolls.

"I'll take first watch," Moffitt volunteered.

Troy gave him a curt nod. "Sure. Wake me up next, all right?"

Moffitt nodded. While the rest of them bedded down in the sand, he took position on the apex of the dune.

Troy stretched out his sore body in the thin, rough bedroll. He fixed his eyes on the bright stars choking the black sky. Any other night and he would have been out like a light, after the chase, capture, and finally escape. Tonight, though, he wasn't close to sleeping; not with one of his men wound up tighter than a watch spring, looking like he was about to snap.

He waited until he was sure that Tully and Hitch were asleep. It wasn't hard to fight off exhaustion with the bitter cold seeping into his bones.

Finally, when he was just about convinced that he had been frozen solid, he crawled out of the bedroll and carefully stood up.

Moffitt was curled up into a tight ball, long legs pressed up to his chest, arms folded over his head. He looked like a child, trying to hide by making himself as small as possible. Troy forced the thought away.

As soon as Troy started walking toward him, Moffitt's head snapped up and he braced his arms by his sides, ready to jump into action.

"What is it?" he whispered tensely.

Troy shook his head. "Nothing," he said in a low voice. He knew that noise traveled far and strong in the flat silence of the desert, but he also knew that Tully and Hitch were dead to the world. He didn't think they would be overheard.

He sat down next to him, elbows resting on his knees. He looked out over the dry, gray ocean of sand, before turning to Moffitt's wide, gray eyes.

"How you doing?" he asked.

Moffitt shrugged. "Alive. Can't complain. Be much better once we can retrieve the maps."

"You know what I mean."

Moffitt looked unfazed. "What do you mean, Troy?"

Troy sighed. Of course, Moffitt wasn't going to make this easy. He pushed forward anyway. "After those SS goons grabbed you—"

"I didn't tell them anything," Moffitt interrupted. Troy caught the tense note to his voice that Moffitt was trying to hide.

Troy shook his head. "I know you enough, I don't need to ask that." He paused a moment. "Did they ask?"

"No."

Moffitt clutched his legs tight to his chest, like he would break apart if he didn't hold himself together. Troy could see every muscle pulled taut, ready to run at any moment.

"You wanna talk about what happened?"

"It doesn't matter now," Moffitt said with a tired sigh. He shifted, hunching further over himself. "It's all over. Not worth dwelling on."

"You don't look like it."

Moffitt looked out over the desert. "I'll be fine."

"Moffitt…"

Moffitt turned back to him eyes flashing. "I should think you've already guessed what happened. Do you need to hear me say it?"

Troy's eyes hardened and he put on his commander's tone. "I need to know that all of my men are here with me, right here, right now, if we're gonna have a chance of getting out of this alive."

A long moment passed while Troy and Moffitt matched each other's gazes. Finally, Moffitt's shoulders slumped. "I'm here, Troy," he said softly.

Troy didn't look away. "Are you?"

Moffitt kept his face impassive, but Troy saw him gripping his knees more tightly.

Troy sighed. "Get some sleep," he said.

Moffitt shook his head. "I'm all right."

"That's an order."

A small smile flickered at the corners of Moffitt's mouth. He stood up and started down the dune. Halfway down, he turned back and whispered, "Thank you, Troy."

Troy's mouth went dry. He couldn't think what to say. He only managed a small, curt nod. His eyes went back to the desert, as he listened to Moffitt bedding down.

He knew that little "thank you;" it was the same one that all of them shared when they got pulled out of a tough spot. It was each of their best attempt to take the huge tangle of gratitude and trust that their team was based on and turn it into words, acknowledging in an offhand way what they all knew to their bones: that they always stood by each other, no matter what.

Troy had given that thank you as often has he received it, and he had no idea how in the hell he was supposed to deserve it now.

After a few minutes, he looked over at Moffitt. The man was turned away from him, his legs straight and back tense. Troy knew that he was far from sleep.

He watched Moffitt feign rest for a moment, and then turned back to the desert. He let the past twelve hours out in a long, ragged breath, and turned his mind to the search for the maps, banishing any non-military thought from his brain.

He felt Moffitt lying awake, until it came time for Tully to relieve him. Then, he didn't have the energy to think another thought before sleep claimed him.


	4. Chapter 4

Shortly after setting out the next day, they sighted a German half-track on their trail. It was only a speck of yellow on the horizon barely distinguishable from the sand, but that was still close enough to track them. Troy knew that they couldn't risk getting captured again or leading the Germans to the maps.

So, they spent the next few hours leading their tail on a wild goose chase. They laid down several false trails for the Jerries to follow and then slipped away on a circuitous route around their pursuers towards the buried documents.

It was around midday when they were finally certain that their tail was gone. Pouring over a map with Moffitt, Troy was frustrated to see that the whole dance had left them several more hours from the hiding place. There was no chance now of reaching the maps by that day.

As they bedded down for the night, they went over situation. They were deep behind enemy lines, running low on fuel and water, with the Krauts on high alert for them.

Hitch suggested that they might find their way to the oasis Moffitt has pointed out or a German supply cache they could pilfer in the hidden maps. Troy spoke for all of them when he responded with a gruff, "We'd better hope so." They all understood what it would mean if the maps didn't point them to fresh fuel and water. In a matter of days they would be facing the choice between the welcoming arms of the desert or a POW camp.

Troy kept one eye on Moffitt during his watch. The man seemed to be sleeping, but so fitfully that Troy was sure he wasn't getting a lick of rest. At one point, his whole body gave a jerk and his breath stopped with a low, panicked sound. Troy tensed, wondering if he should go help, remind Moffitt that he was back with friends, out of danger, that he was safe. Then, after a second, Moffitt started breathing again and settled back into his bedroll.

In the morning, the dark circles under his eyes were more pronounced. Troy noticed him starting at sudden jolts in the Jeeps and divots in the sand. His whole body looked tense, as if he was ready to run for cover at any moment. Even if he hadn't known what had happened, Troy would have been able to tell that something was very wrong with his second-in-command.

Still, Moffitt was alert and aware enough to help guide them to the hidden cache of documents. They made certain that the Germans weren't close on their heels, and then pulled to a stop. Troy and Moffitt put their heads together over their own map and checked and rechecked the coordinates.

"Well," Troy declared finally. "Unless that sandstorm picked us up and dropped us off in Oz, this should be the place. Tully, Hitch, you start digging. As soon as you find the maps, you radio headquarters and tell em' we're coming home."

Tully nodded. "Right, Sarge," Hitch added.

Troy turned to the other sergeant. "Moffitt, I need to talk with you."

"I can help Tully and Hitch, Troy. It's no—"

"That's an order."

Moffitt's back stiffened. He nodded. "All right."

Troy nodded towards the nearest Jeep. "In private."

Moffitt stayed silent and stepped into the passenger's seat. Troy gave Tully a quick, reassuring nod, and then got into the Jeep himself. He drove over a dune and kept going until he was sure they were out of sight and earshot of the others.

He took a deep breath, before revving down the engine and turning to Moffitt. "Okay, enough with this stiff-upper-lip bullshit."

"What are you talking about?"

"You know goddamn well what I'm talking about. I know you haven't been sleeping these past few days. You look like you're about to jump out of your skin. You're not all right, and we can all see it."

Moffitt glared at him with stony gray eyes. "Well, what do you want me to do?"

"You need to tell me what happened at that German camp."

Moffitt opened his mouth, hesitated, and swallowed hard. "You've already asked that," he mumbled.

"Yeah, and you didn't talk to me then either."

Abruptly, Moffitt pulled open the door and stepped out into the sand. He faced away from Troy as he answered in a clipped voice. "I told you we don't need to talk about it. I know you've figured out what they did. They were bored and I was an easy target. That's all there is to it."

Troy stormed out of the Jeep, slamming the door behind him. "No, it's not! Dammit, Moffitt—!"

Moffitt spun to face Troy, his face full of anger and fear and pain as powerful as a punch to the gut. "What do you want me to tell you, Troy?" he shouted. "How they bent me over the table, how they took turns, how they made me—!"

The shout died in his throat. He stood frozen, his shoulders hunched over, his hands shaking. Troy had seen Moffitt, disarm bombs, crack safes, and face down Gestapo interrogators without his hands shaking.

"Moffitt…" he began weakly. He had no idea what he could say, but he knew he needed to do something stop those hands from shaking.

Moffitt ignored him. He looked down at his boots, visibly struggling to compose himself. He gripped the edge of the Jeep, and hunched over, breathing heavily. "I'm sorry," he said, the faintest tremor audible in his soft voice. "I know I should be focused on the mission. I don't know what I'm doing. I just…"

"It's all right." Troy took a step closer, but stopped before putting a hand on Moffitt's back.

"I'm used to being treated as a soldier," Moffitt continued. His eyes were fixed on the pitted, sun-baked metal of the Jeep's door. "An enemy, someone who fought with a reason, with orders, and rules. For some purpose. In that tent… all they wanted to do was hurt me. I was just… an outlet for them, and there was nothing that I could do. I haven't felt that helpless since my brother…"

He choked and gripped the metal so hard Troy thought he was about to break his fingers. Moffitt hadn't mentioned his brother since the day he received the telegram telling him of the young boy's death. This time Troy couldn't stop himself from gripping the sergeant by the shoulder. Moffitt flinched, but seemed to force himself to stay in place.

"I'm sorry," he repeated. "I know I'm behaving irrationally. I'm letting my emotions get the better of me again. And I know I shouldn't."

"You don't need to be sorry, Moffitt." He tightened his grip and gave his shoulder a gentle shake. "Not for anything. You didn't do anything wrong, and any of us would be acting the same way, if it had been us in that tent instead of you."

Moffitt sighed. He turned so that he was half-sitting on the Jeep door, and scrubbed at his eyes in exhaustion. "Even you?" he murmured, voice barely rising above a whisper.

"Yeah. Even me." He paused and watched as Moffitt blinked wearily, staring off into space. "Tell ya the truth, I don't think I'd've been able to hold it together as well as you have."

The tiniest smile curled the corner of Moffitt's lips. "I doubt it."

Troy felt a small surge of relief that Moffitt was still able to smile at something. He hesitated a long moment, then said in a low voice. "You took it for Tully."

Moffitt looked over at him. He sighed, and Troy saw exactly how broken-down and exhausted he was. His eyes drifted back down to his feet. "Yes, I suppose I did."

Troy squeezed his shoulder. "You're more of a soldier than any of those thugs, Moffitt. You're more of a soldier than most of the men I know."

Moffitt took deep breath and stood up straight, hands clasped behind his back, the picture of military acumen. "Thank you, Troy."

"Don't mention it. You know, I—"

"Sarge!" Hitch's shout broke through the stillness of the desert. "We found 'em!"

"Great! Radio headquarters. We'll be right there!" He looked back at Moffitt. "You gonna be all right?"

He nodded. Of course Moffitt wasn't all right. Troy wouldn't expect him to be after what happened. He just needed to know that he was together enough to make it back to the base. Then they could figure out where to go from there.


	5. Chapter 5

Night in the desert was cold and silent. Troy had trouble finding anything to distract him from the dark thoughts swirling around his mind. He tried to block them out with logistical concerns.

They had the maps. They'd fulfilled their mission. Before nightfall tomorrow, they would reach the base and turn over the maps. Hopefully, they would finally get a few days' leave, or at least a breather before heading back into the desert. All he needed to do was get them back to base.

He felt a gentle pressure on his shoulder. With a start, he looked up into Tully's calm face.

"My watch, Sarge," he said in a low voice.

"Thanks, Tully." He stood and started to walk back towards his bedroll when Tully grabbed his shoulder.

"Sarge," he began. Troy could see the worry behind his usually calm blue eyes. Every word came out of him like he had to pry it loose. "Me and Hitch were wonderin'… Moffitt… How is…?" He shrugged and looked down at his shoes, and Troy understood what he meant.

"He's keeping it together. As long as we can keep moving and get those maps back to HQ, we'll be okay. We can sort out the rest once we get back behind our lines."

The look on Tully's face showed plainly that he didn't believe a word of what Troy said, but wasn't going to voice an objection. He clapped Tully's shoulder and then walked back down the dune. He grabbed his bedroll off of the Jeep, spotted where Moffitt lay flat on his back, obviously awake, and walked over to him.

Alerted by the noise of shifting sand, Moffitt opened his eyes and looked over at him. He gave a questioning frown.

"You haven't been sleeping," he whispered, as he laid out his bedroll next to Moffitt's. "It's gonna get us all into trouble soon."

Moffitt lifted himself up on his elbow. "And your solution is a sleepover."

"Worth a shot. I thought you might appreciate having somebody close by. If not—"

"No!" Moffitt's voice was louder than either of them expected. Hitch mumbled and rolled over in his sleep. Tully did a good job of acting like he hadn't heard anything.

Through the darkness, Troy could barely make out Moffitt's expression as he swallowed. "I… Troy, I would appreciate it."

"Sure." Troy bundled up in his bedroll, trying futilely to keep out the cold desert air.

"Thank you," Moffitt said in a voice that was nearly carried away by the wind.

No easy reply came to Troy's mind. Moffitt's voice was small and vulnerable, almost childlike. Troy had a glimpse of a lost, hurt little boy in soldier's boots, trembling behind a stiff upper lip. He didn't know how to deal with that.

"Go to sleep, Moffitt," he muttered.

Moffitt laid back on the ground, one arm folded under his head, the other laid across his chest. Troy watched his chest slowly rise and fall, his legs still a bit too stiff to suggest sleep, but still more peaceful than Troy had seen him with the past few nights.

He couldn't hold the thoughts at bay, anymore then. His mind turned agonizingly to what had actually happened to Moffitt in that tent.

In war, rape became a weapon. He knew that. A few months back, there had been an allied spy, a Belgian expat living in Libya. Somehow the Germans found her out and captured her. When they managed to get her out, she was pregnant and so torn up on the inside that she died within a week.

She was locked up in a remote prison with a bunch of bored, angry soldiers, and they savaged her like they thought she was responsible for the whole allied army. Plenty of Americans and Brits had been written up for forcing themselves on Arab girls. In those cases, it wasn't even anger motivating them; they were just bored and didn't care whether or not the girl said no. He'd never heard about it happening to a man though.

Troy had been a prisoner before. He'd been tortured. Beckman had beaten and burned and shocked and drowned him until he fantasized about a bullet in the head. Sometimes those memories wormed their way into his mind and forced him to relive the miserable details before he could move on.

But, he knew that was still different from what happened to the Belgian spy. And what happened to Moffitt. How did he keep his mind together under that kind of pain and humiliation?

Troy wondered if the S.S. men had done this before to other soldiers. Did they only go after one of them because there weren't any girls around? What did Moffitt say drawing attention away from Tully that made them choose him?

Why in the hell hadn't Troy been able to stop it?

Moffitt sighed in his sleep and rolled over so that he was facing Troy. He ground his teeth and forced himself to put all of that out of mind. Moffitt had survived and he was here now. That was more important than anything else. Yes, what had happened wasn't the same as an interrogation or a beating, but that didn't mean Troy was going to treat him any differently. He was still his friend, still his second-in-command, still the person he trusted more than anyone else in this desert. Nothing was going to change that.

It wasn't going to do any good if he ended up losing sleep fretting like an anxious mother. He emptied his mind, concentrating only on the exhaustion in his body. A moment later, he was mercifully asleep.


	6. Chapter 6

Troy buried his elbows in the sand as he peered through the binoculars, his sights fixed on the battered tan half-track, plodding its way across the desert.

"You're a long way from home, Fritz," he muttered.

"Scouting our supply routes, I venture," Moffitt added. Troy passed him the binoculars; he paused a moment to get a fix on the Germans. "Probably planning out a pretty little ambush for when we bring in the tank parts from Addis Ababa."

"Nobody'd have give this place a second look if we hadn't been going through."

"Unlucky for them." A smile crossed Moffitt's face as he lowered the binoculars.

The sight brought a smile to Troy's face too. "Sounds like one of Dietrich's schemes. Be a pretty smooth trick if we got captured, then game back with a few prisoners of our own."

"Tully and I can pin them down, while you and Hitch loop around and cut them off."

"They'll try to run."

"You'll have to be fast." Troy caught a familiar glint in Moffitt's eye, the look that belied his practiced English stoicism. He liked that look. "And we'll try to slow them down."

"All right." He took the binoculars and jammed them back in his pack. "Let's shake it."

He and Moffitt slithered back down the dune, then ran to the Jeeps. They explained the plan quickly to Tully and Hitch as they got into position by the miniguns.

Troy looked over at Moffitt, goggles pulled over his eyes, clutching the triggers of his gun. Just like any other raid. Because there wasn't any reason it wouldn't be. He was the same man, his same second-in-command, his same friend. Moffitt hadn't wanted to tell him what happened, because he thought Troy would think of him differently. That was what the Germans had wanted, to make Moffitt ashamed, make him feel weak, make him less of a man. And Troy would be damned if he was going to let that happen

Troy pulled down his goggles. He raised his fist and brought it down sharply. At his signal, Moffitt and Tully gunned it around the dune. Hitch sped around the other side, just as Moffitt began laying down a round of fire, forcing the half-track back, right into Hitch and Troy.

The chase was quick. Moffitt's plan worked like a charm; the Germans were caught in the pincer. Before they could even try to escape, their tires were shot out, and the half-track was riddled with bullets. They fired back, trying to overwhelm their attackers, but the Jeeps had the advantage of speed.

It was clear there was nowhere they could run without being torn to pieces. Finally, the half-track ground to a halt, and the three Germans stood up, hands behind their heads.

"Surrender! Surrender!" one of them shouted in heavily-accented English. The two Jeeps pulled up on either side of the half-track. Moffitt and Troy both pulled out handguns and swung themselves out of the Jeeps to the ground. Moffitt gave them orders in German, and the three were rapidly disarmed and divided between the two of them. Troy and Hitch took the one with the best English; Moffitt and Tully crammed the other two in their Jeep.

They started towards the wavering horizon. After an hour, Troy heard, rising over the rumbling of the engines, the sound of Tully whistling "Kiss the Boys Goodbye." Troy couldn't help but grin to himself.

A group of MPs appeared as soon as they rolled into the base to grab the three prisoners. The patrol went to stow the Jeeps in the lot, and then Troy and Moffitt went to the Colonel's office for debriefing, before they had to be herded there.

Moffitt drifted closer to Troy, as they walked across the dusty square, his hands clasped behind his back, trying to appear casual.

"Troy," he murmured. "In giving our report, I wonder… how much exactly of what happened…"

"The S.S. goons dragged you into that tent, knocked you around," Troy interrupted. "I don't know why I'd tell 'em anything different."

Moffitt opened his mouth, but didn't say anything. His eyes were wide in almost childlike relief, even as he struggled to keep his face impassive.

"I… Thank you," he murmured finally.

Troy shrugged. He reached out to grab Moffitt's wrist, but caught his hand by mistake. He squeezed quickly, and then let go, hoping that no one had seen the odd little gesture.

It had never even entered his mind to tell another soul what he knew had happened at that German camp. The brass had never heard all of the details of their raids. One more time wouldn't kill them.

He and Moffitt gave the same account, mostly the truth, to Colonel Quint. Moffitt was calm Troy thought that he was the only one who noticed the miniscule twitch in his gray eyes when he described being dragged away from the others into the tent, asked a few perfunctory questions and slapped around.

"Hm," the colonel grumbled. He heaved himself up to his feet. Troy tensed and saw Moffitt do the same as they both worried that the officer might question their story. He prepared to lie with everything he had. The colonel dug into his pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes and a match. "Bunch of freshly-minted S.S. goons in the middle of the desert. There's gotta be some story behind that."

"An intelligence operation perhaps," Moffitt suggested. "The base were taken to did appear rather ad hoc; and, in that part of the desert, they could reasonably have expected it to go unnoticed."

He lit the cigarette and jammed it between his teeth. "Speculation like that's above your paygrade, Sergeant. Important thing is, we can send this information up the line and let someone else figure out what Fritz is up to. Good thing for us we have you four Lazaruses on our side."

"I'm flattered, Colonel," Troy drawled.

"Stow it, Sergeant." He pried the cigarette out of his mouth and glared at it. "You and your men have earned yourselves a few days' leave."

"Thank you, Sir," Troy said.

Quint leaned back against his desk and waved his cigarette vaguely. "Try to keep those two privates out of trouble." He took another drag. "Dismissed."

He and Moffitt turned and started towards the mouth of the tent.

"Sergeant Moffitt."

Both of them looked back at Quint. The colonel was frowning at Moffitt. He gestured up and down with his cigarette. "You sure you're not gonna drop by medical to look at those bruises?"

"No, Sir," Moffitt said, a subtle brittleness to his tone. "I'm quite all right now, thank you, Sir."

Colonel Quint didn't look entirely convinced. He turned to Troy. "You try to keep your men alive, Troy."

Troy nodded. He responded through gritted teeth. "Yes, Sir." He made eye contact with Moffitt, then they turned and walked into the harsh sun. Troy smiled at Moffitt, unable to make out his expression as his eyes adjusted to the light. "Fun guy. Real inspiration."

Moffitt let out a weak chuckle. The rigidness had faded from his voice. "I feel as if I'd just been called into the headmaster's office."

"Yeah, but this time you didn't do anything wrong."

Moffitt nodded. "I suppose," he murmured.

"Suppose goddamn nothing."

His mouth twitched in a small smile. "Yes, you're right." They paused by a parked supply truck. Moffitt leaned against the bumper and took his beret out of his shoulder loop to twist it in his hands. Troy watched him thoughtfully.

"As long as we have a few days' leave, I thought I'd grab up Tully and Hitch and go get some drinks. You in?"

Moffitt shook his head. "No, I… I think I'm going to lay down a bit. Do some reading."

"Listen, Doc, we know you're the smart guy, you don't need to lay it on that thick."

"You say as you go to swill back cheap drinks in a dive bar and make clumsy passes at cheaper women."

"For your information, my passes are smooth as silk, and I wasn't planning on going for anything below a corporal."

"Well, I stand corrected, then." Moffitt grinned out of the corner of his mouth, and Troy couldn't stop himself from chuckling as well.

He took his bush hat from under his arm and pulled it down over his eyes. "You sure you're not gonna join us? They've got a new load of Air Force girls in from Australia. Plenty to go around."

"I'm sure." Moffitt stood up straight and replaced the hat to his head.

Troy chewed his tongue a moment, then continued, "You gonna be all right?"

Moffitt's eyes were hard and deliberate, so that Troy had no idea of what was going on behind them. "I'm fine, Troy. I honestly just… need to be alone for a while. I'' be more sociable after I can breathe a bit."

"No rush. They have to at least fix up the Jeeps before they send us out into the middle of nowhere. I'll tell Hitch to leave some gum in one of the engines."

"Thanks. Good luck with the Aussie girls."

"Seeya."

As they walked away, Troy couldn't fight the itch of guilt and worry in his brain. He knew that there had to be more that he could do for Moffitt, something to help him keep functioning without walling himself up. Maybe that was just selfish, though. Maybe he just needed to let Moffitt deal with this on his own, in his own time. He couldn't expect him to bounce back like nothing had happened, as much as he wished it were so.

Or maybe that was all a crock of shit; just his way of avoiding his responsibility to one of his men who was hurt.

Either way, for now, there wasn't much he thought that he could do except let Moffitt be, and wait until he asked for help. Then, he could go about deciding how to give it.


	7. Chapter 7

Troy didn't end up getting as drunk as he wanted. He watched as Hitch and Tully tore up the place. Within a few hours, they were sitting in the corner, buying up the bar and singing army chants with a gaggle of pink-faced Australian girls.

They offered him a handful of beers and a bouncy redhead, but he waved them off. Instead, he spent the evening nursing a glass of the most bitter, punishing scotch he could get his hands on. He didn't manage to get much further than an anxious buzz he wasn't inclined to feed.

Finally, he had to admit that all he was doing was worrying about Moffitt like he was the guy's mother. It wasn't worth sitting there stewing and getting more and more uselessly maudlin.

He slid a few pound coins across the bar for the drink. Tully and Hitch were busy teaching the girls to play the spoons, through bouts of giggling, so he didn't see the need to bother them. He slipped out of the bar, jammed his hands into his pockets, and hunched his shoulders against the cold as he made his way towards the base.

Before he had been assigned to North Africa, all he knew about the desert came from cheap paperbacks and comic strips. He'd never understood why it was supposed to get so cold at night there. Moffitt was the one who finally explained it to him. He enjoyed getting Moffitt going off on something like that. His eyes lit up, and the last shreds of that cool demeanor he liked to project disappeared.

They sat in the sand, gathered close around the dying embers of the fire, sipping the last dregs of sour coffee, and Moffitt explained. His eyes reflected the last flickers of light and he moved his large hands in tight little motions, clearly just barely managing to contain his excitement about desert ecology or climate or the history of a certain Bedouin tribe. Even if Troy didn't understand in the slightest, it was comforting to know that Moffitt did. He could trust Moffitt, even when he didn't trust himself.

He checked back into the base and walked to the tent that served as his and Moffitt's quarters. He found Moffitt sprawled out on his stomach on his cot, already stripped down to his undershirt and shorts, his nose buried in a book.

"Good evening, Troy," he said, without looking up. "How was the night's revelry?"

"Hitch and Tully had fun. Come tomorrow, there'll be plenty of broken hearts from the land down under." He pulled off his hat and hung it on a nail by the door.

"Might be a dangerous operation. Australians are a naturally vengeful people. Haven't quite weeded out the criminal spirit."

"I'll tell them to watch out for stray boomerangs." He dropped down onto his own cot and leaned over heavily with his elbows on his knees, regarding Moffitt, who still hadn't looked up from his book. For a moment, Troy thought he was reading it the wrong way, before he realized that the title was in Arabic.

"How you doing?"

"Fine," Moffitt said.

Troy frowned. He bit back the frustration burning in his chest. "How's the book?"

"Good. It's about the history of Sufism in Africa. I've had it for months. Never quite got the chance to read it, though."

"Huh." He scuffed at the dirt with his boot for a moment, then leaned down and started on the laces. "Listen, Moffitt—"

"You're trying to find some way to ask how I'm doing without sounding like my mother." He shut the book, holding his place with his thumb, and swiveled his head to look at Troy. "Don't worry. Just have out with it and save us both the trouble."

"All right." Troy tugged off his boot and then pulled his sock-clad foot up onto his knee. "You said you'd be better after breathing. How's that working out for you?"

"As well as could be expected." He drummed his fingers along the spine, and then shut it completely. "I suppose I should be either going into hysterics or moving on as if nothing had happened. I'm entirely comfortable with this awkward middle."

"You seem fine." He took off the other boot and lined them up beside his bed. "But, then, you're good at that."

"What?"

"Acting. I guess that's why you make such a good spy."

"Well, thank you, Troy, I'm flattered. I was in _Julius Caesar_ once in secondary school."

"Oh, yeah? Who'd you play?"

"Calpurnia. Caesar's wife. It was an all-boys school."

Troy burst out laughing. He was happy to see Moffitt smiling too. "I bet you'd look great in one of those crazy togas," he jibed as he continued undressing to his shirt and boxers.

"Oh, you don't know the half of it. I put quite an effort into that role. The costume was a bit too short though. I think my hairy legs somewhat spoiled the romantic illusion."

Still, laughing, Troy fell back onto the bed. He crossed his arms under his head and looked up at the canvas.

"You going to turn in?"

"Yeah, I guess. "

"Probably a good idea." Moffitt dog-eared his page, then tucked the book under his pillow

Troy heard Moffitt click off the lamp, dug under their blankets. The lights of the rest of the base still shone through the canvas. He turned away from the side of the tent, towards Moffitt. "G'night," he murmured.

"Good night, Troy."

Troy shut his eyes and tried to make his mind go quiet. There was one niggling thought that wouldn't let him be. It kept escaping anything he tried to bury it under and leaping to his ear to whisper, _you know he's not okay_.

If he slept, it would be while Moffitt was mentally torturing himself. He was safe and sound at the Allied base, but knew as sure as though he were a clairvoyant that Moffitt was back in that tent in the middle of the desert.

Finally, he couldn't take it anymore. "Moffitt!" he whispered across the wide, dark space. Moffitt turned to look at him immediately, making it clear that he hadn't been close to sleep.

"What is it, Troy?"

The thought took hold in Troy's brain. As much as he knew it was stupid, a child's solution to an adult problem, he couldn't shake it, and he couldn't see any other way.

"Come here."

"What for?" Moffitt asked, even as he sat up and swung his legs out of bed.

"What I said. Listen, we both know you didn't sleep a wink out in the desert. We both know you're not going to a doctor or chaplain or whatever else, which leaves me the only person responsible for you."

"You're not responsible for my actions."

"I'm your commanding officer, Moffitt. So, yeah, I am, and I'm not going to let you stay awake staring at the ceiling and giving yourself hell. So get over here."

For a moment, it seemed as though Moffitt was about to get up, then he stopped short. "You realize, if, by chance, someone were to walk in, they might be led to assumptions.."

"Well, you try not to act like a complete fairy, I'll do my best too."

Moffitt got to his feet and crossed his arms. Even in the dim light, Troy could make out his grin. "And what exactly constitutes acting like less than a complete fairy?"

"Well," Troy grinned back at him, his heart swelling to see another flash of Moffitt's old humor. "You can try not to be overcome by my dashing good looks."

"Oh, I'll do my very best. Try to avoid any huge heroics or anything, or I might not be able to contain myself. Then both of us can say goodbye to an honorable discharge and a chestful of medals."

"Might be a quick way to avoid anymore running around the desert, though." Troy scooted back to the far edge of the cot, leaving just enough room for another man to squeeze in beside him. He watched Moffitt pick up his pillow and blanket, then cross the room. He sat down on the edge of the cot, hesitated, and then placed his pillow at the other end of the cot, by Troy's feet.

That made sense, Troy reflected. That was how he slept whenever he had to share a bed with other men, in a hotel room with his brother, with his cousins from upstate. It made it a bit easier for him to ignore how Moffitt was right and the whole situation looked ridiculously queer. But, something nagged at him, telling him that he was doing what was easy, not what he supposed to, not what would help his man.

It wasn't what they did in the desert.

Just as Moffitt was laying down, struggling to situate his awkwardly long, bony form in the cot, Troy grabbed his own pillow and dropped it next to Moffitt's. He felt Moffitt staring at him as he shuffled around, then flopped down flat on the bed.

He folded his arms behind his head and looked over at Moffitt, their faces only a few inches apart.

"You're okay," he murmured, unsure of exactly why he said it.

Moffitt's lip curled in a smile. He nodded. "Good night, Troy," he whispered.

Troy nodded back. Moffitt's clear eyes flickered in the scant light, before he rolled over onto his side. Troy stared at the thick, black curls of his hair a moment. He shut his eyes and tried to relax.

They were both curled in their own thick, army-issue blankets, but Troy could still feel the extra heat from the second body. Moffitt's long legs couldn't quite fit into the small space, and Troy gave up on keeping his own legs from knocking into them. The smell of sand and grime and sweat was more noticeable than it had been in the desert.

He hadn't shared a bed with anyone in a long time. He'd have to try it with a girl again some time soon. At least she would wear perfume.

He woke up before the morning bugle call, laying in a pool of sweat. In sleep, they had rolled closer to each other in the middle of the bed. The blankets had been rucked up and their legs were tangled together. Troy's head was practically buried in Moffitt's shoulder.

Waking up backwards in a bed, practically spooning with another man. He really needed to find that girl.

He began to carefully extricate himself. Moffitt grumbled. Troy watched as he blinked, eyes adjusting to the light.

A slow smile spread across his face. "Morning," he mumbled.

Troy grunted something in response. Moffitt sighed and stretched. He grabbed the pillow and rolled out of the cot, a graceless mess of skinny limbs. Troy stayed crushed to one side, as he watched Moffitt walk back to his own cot.

He bit back the inexplicable urge to call at Moffitt to come back to bed with him.


	8. Chapter 8

"So, wait, wait, over there you guys call the things that hold up ladies' stockings suspenders."

Moffitt glanced up from the pile of maps and documents and raised an eyebrow at Troy through the clouds of smoke. "Yes."

"Then, what do you call suspenders? I mean, American suspenders, the things that hold up your pants."

"Braces." Moffitt put down the code book he had been consulting to take a drag off of his cigarette. "I think you mean something different by pants, though."

Troy raised in eyebrow as he flicked a bit of ash off the end of his cigarette. "What do pants mean in England?"

"They go under your trousers."

Troy chuckled, cigarette poised at his lips. "Jeez. Your guys' language is weird."

"Well, I think you'll find it was our language to begin with. Which makes you the weird ones."

"Hey, we fought a war about this. You know how that turned out."

"Now, let's not bring that up. You and I were getting along so well."

Troy laughed so hard he nearly choked on a mouthful of smoke. He saw Moffitt shaking with laughter as well. Moffitt pushed back his chair and put his hands behind his neck, cigarette dangling out of the corner of his mouth.

They were in the same room they'd been in for the better part of the past five days. The brass had called Moffitt to allied headquarters in a nearby town, so that they could apply his vast knowledge of the geography and demographics of the desert to the information newly gleaned from the stolen maps. Troy, Tully, and Hitch tagged along, it being common knowledge that the four desert raiders didn't take well to being separated, if it could be at all helped.

People had started to think of the Rat Patrol as one unit, greater than the sum of its parts, instead of four soldiers on the same mission. Troy couldn't help but be proud of that fact, even if it just consisted of people whispering that they were a bunch of screwballs who had been out in the sun too long. At least it meant he was in less danger of other units scooping up Tully to run supply missions or sending Moffitt out on suicidal reconnaissance operations on his own.

The documents had been thoroughly translated, and it turned out that their value as maps was close to zero. All of the ammo dumps, bases, and supply routes were already known and either attacked or put under surveillance by the allies. The troop movements recorded were also too outdated to be much help.

The only point of interest was a brief reference to a "Gerson" supposedly stationed in a small Arab town. "Gerson" was a name that had popped up again and again, and was thought to refer to a German spy, responsible for the last-minute scuppering of multiple allied missions. The information contained in the documents they had retrieved could be the final key to neutralizing Gerson.

Troy still didn't think that it was worth it.

Moffitt was given a tiny, gray block of a room to work in. Troy sat on the edge of the desk littered with maps and reports in English, German, French, and Arabic, his feet propped up on a spare chair. Hitch and Tully had made sure that they were kept in constant supply of better cigarettes than either of them had smoked in months.

"Well, great, then." Troy sucked on the cigarette. "I'm taking the kids and going back to your mother's."

"Oh, big talk. Could you hand me that report? The yellow one?"

"The one about to fall of the desk?"

Moffitt nodded, cigarette dangling between his lips.

"Here."

"Top man."

Troy took one last drag off of the cigarette, then stubbed it out in the ashtray. "How's it coming?"

Moffitt sighed and scratched at his forehead. "The current best theory is that Gerson is embedded with an Arab group. Maybe under the cover of an arms broker, more likely as a concerned civilian. He's acting as though he only wants to protect them against both sides, when really he's using them for information. The recon mission we ran into, the one you thought screamed Dietrich?"

"Don't tell me I'm wrong. I'd hate to think I'm losing touch with the Reich's wiliest captain." Troy patted his pockets, looking for the pack of cigarettes he could have sworn he'd left there.

Moffitt pulled a pack out of his own shirt pocket and started pulling him out a cigarette. "No, the men are definitely his, but the info we're almost certain came from Gerson." He held the unlit cigarette to the tip of the one in his mouth, until it began to glow red. He held it out to Troy.

"Thanks."

Moffitt took the cigarette out of his mouth and let smoke roll out of his nostrils. "I'm personally of the opinion that the raid on the Addis Ababa supply route was meant for more than just giving us a poke in the eye."

Troy finished his drag, then frowned. "Why in the hell would the Germans need with English tanks?"

"Not the Germans."

Troy groaned softly as realization settled in his stomach. "They're arming the Arabs."

"Winding them up and pointing them straight at us. Depending on the tribe, it wouldn't be hard to turn them against the Allies."

"And how much harder to convince them the Germans are real buddies?"

"Might be a lesser of two evils situation." Moffit yawned and ended up coughing on the smoke filling the air.

Troy movied his cigarette to his left hand to pound on Moffitt's back. "You really gotta get outta here sometimes, professor."

"Well, maybe you're just in here having a good time," he said around a few more spluttering coughs, "but I've got my hands full trying to match what little we know of Gerson's movements with what little we know of the movements of the more antagonistic tribal bands."

"And how's it going so far?" Troy said, easing back onto his corner of the desk.

"Honestly, better than could be expected. We have a few prime suspects and, now that intelligence is actively looking for a German undercover with the Arabs, we should see more conclusive evidence coming in."

He paused a moment, lingering over his cigarette. Troy could see the nervous flicker of hesitation in his eyes. Finally, he let out a low, tired sigh and muttered, "It's almost certain their main stomping grounds are the same area as the camp we were taken to."

Troy flicked his cigarette, resisting the urge to ball his hands into fists. "So, the S.S.…?"

"Gerson definitely has something big on the burner and the higher-ups are more than willing to help."

Troy generally tried not to think of the goon who had actually hurt Moffitt. When he did, a rough irrational anger came over him that made him want to blow apart each and every German until he got to the sons of bitches responsible and put them through more hell than the worst fire-and-brimstone preacher could dream up. He didn't know how Moffitt managed.

"You sure you don't wanna cut out for a little while? Get some air, come back with fresh eyes. According to Tully there's supposed to be an RAF-versus-Army cricket game later today. Him and me and Hitch won't understand a goddamn thing, maybe you can keep us up to speed."

"I'll do my level best," Moffitt said, with a tired smile. "When is this supposed to be happening?"

"About an hour or so. In the meantime, we can run down to the mess hall and try to get some food into you."

"Thank you, mother."

"Hey, I'm just worried that if you drop another pound they're gonna reassign you as a cook, then I'll be out of my best man. And who're they gonna replace you with? Peterson? Jesus."

Moffitt leaned back in his chair and laughed, tired but without a hint of performance this time. Troy felt a thrill of accomplishment and the sense of easy warmth slacking his muscles, that came whenever he could make Moffitt laugh.

* * *

It took Troy a moment to recognize what had jolted him awake. The body next to him was tense and trembling. Moffitt was turned away from him. Troy could see his shoulders hunched over and shaking. His breath came in hard, desperate gasps, like a drowning man struggling to keep his head above water.

His first impulse was to grab Moffitt and shake him awake, to pull him out of whatever nightmare world he was trapped in. He held himself back, and instead slowly eased a hand onto Moffitt's thin arm, in a firm but gentle grasp.

When his brother had bad nightmares, after their father died, the only thing that Troy could do was hold him. Most of the time, he didn't even wake up. Troy knelt by his bedside, his arms wrapped around the smaller, trembling body, sometimes softly rocking him or stroking his hair, until he felt his brother become calm. Even in the dream world, he seemed to realize that he wasn't totally alone, that there was someone out there who was still looking out for him.

He thought about David right now, dead asleep in some barracks in England. He thought about Moffitt's own little brother, who Moffitt would never, ever get to see again, no matter how hard he fought and struggled.

He eased closer, pressing his chest to Moffitt's back. "You're okay," he whispered, his breath rustling the dark hair. "Take it easy. You're okay." Moffitt's breath caught, and for a moment Troy thought he was going to wake up. A moment later, he breathed out again, much softer. The trembling in his shoulders had at least slowed. Troy could feel the muscles relaxing against his own.

"You're okay," he repeated. In his mind, he imagined wrapping his arms around Moffitt like he would have done to twelve-year-old David. In reality, checked himself and only held the other man's arm, massaging gently. "Okay, okay, okay, okay. I got you." He didn't know what to do with his other hand, so he looped it around Moffitt's head, his fingers barely brushing him.

Moffitt was still, breathing softly. The sliver of his face Troy could see was calm and restful. He was barely aware of himself still mouthing the words, "You're okay, you're okay, you're okay."

Moffitt woke up before he did that morning. Troy came to with his face buried in the tangle of dark hair as the other man carefully slithered away, trying to make it look slightly less like they had slept practically on top of each other. Troy appreciated the effort.


End file.
